It’s happening again. That feeling of fuzzy reality, lost in time. Been thinking seriously about what it might be like if I were dead. Mostly dead inside already, the body just hanging on.
This time I know better, having spent 8 years in depression over the loss of my son. I know the signs, and I know that I’ll never kill myself; it’s too hard to let go. But, the siren call is still there and it is tempting to just heed the voice and drive around the line of cars waiting at the railroad tracks and drive my tiny car under the train. Would be quick, so tempting.
But from eight years of experience (and a few bungled attempts) I know I’ll never do it. Too pragmatic. Still it sucks being stuck lost and out of touch, feeling sorry for myself and angry at the normal world.
So as a hedge, I’ve started drinking again. Not eating just drinking, I’m just not hungry. When I see old friends, everyone says I’ve lost weight. No diet works like lonely and depressed. ‘You look great, have you been working out?’ I just smile and try to look normal. It’s becoming more difficult each day, the frozen smile, the false platitudes.
Difficult but so routine, I know the drill, show too much pain and they pounce. Good meaning and all, but I don’t want their help or pity, I just want something to make me feel. Feel something besides self loathing and anger, something not numb.
The feel of a calming hand on my face, or a warm body next to mine, soft lips on mine, those things I miss. Those are things of the living, not meant for me in my place out of touch. Maybe someday I’ll deserve those things, but today I’m lost.
© The autobiography of Mr. perfect, 2017.